Our Brooklyn is not yours. We are always running through it. The streets are narrow and cobbled like Venice's, and we trip through them laughing. I know it's really the borough because everything is brick and Brooklyn is where you live. I can't take you from there even in dreams. Our Brooklyn is all fucked up; a mix of the paces I know better than it. The city belongs to you but I find my past in every corner.
At one point people flood us, something I hated most when I tried to move there. We're mashed between a horde of sardines as we hustle up the steps of some Venetian bridge clinging to my memories. We're surrounded by skyscrapers and I ask you why we can't see the top of them even though the sky is clear and you smile so I drop it. I haven't seen you in years, your smile's been gone much longer.
For a moment I think you'll let me drown in the crowd but instead you dissappear, and the streets empty, and I'm holding a severed hand.
No comments:
Post a Comment